“Oh, we just invited a few people. We were going stir crazy.”
There were about fifteen people at the Dillons’, which made it feel like a full-blown party. Alan Chu was in the corner talking to a guy named Benji, who was the assistant to the President’s chief of staff. (Everyone called him Donna, because he had the same job as Donna did on The West Wing.) He was a likable twenty-five-year-old, who was petite with dusty blond hair and freckles and looked no older than fifteen. He was always cheerful and had nicknames for everyone—he called Matt “Mr. Kelly,” and Jimmy “the Ambassador.” He and Alan were the most unlikely friends—they were ten years apart and Benji was adorable while Alan was horrendous—but apparently they honestly enjoyed each other’s company. I’d commented on their friendship once, how strange their pairing seemed, and Matt had just shrugged. “Politics makes strange bedfellows,” he’d said. “But Benji’s not gay,” I’d said, and Matt had laughed for about twenty minutes straight.
The two of them were talking to Lissy, the White House receptionist. She was a pretty girl from Arkansas who had a constant smile on her face, which I guessed must be a requirement for the job. Everyone called her ROTUS (short for Receptionist of the United States), and she seemed to be okay with this nickname, but it always made me think of a strange shape of pasta. Lissy’s best friend, Cameron, was across the room talking to some guy I didn’t know. Cameron was whip-smart and worked in the communications office. She also rarely smiled and scared me just a little bit, so maybe Matt was right about the strange bedfellows.
Billy (the DCOS) was there too, and was standing next to Jimmy at the bar. Jimmy (who loved to make signature cocktails) was mixing up a pitcher of Frostbites. I didn’t know what was in them other than peppermint schnapps, but I did know that I felt warm and dizzy after my first one. The snow made everyone feel festive, gave them permission to act a little crazy. “Have another drink,” people kept saying. “It’s blizzard season.”
—
Ash and Jimmy were great entertainers, happiest when everyone around them was eating and drinking. They were unconcerned with people spilling drinks or recipes turning out perfectly. Unlike me, who felt pressure to have everything in perfect order before a party, they were always inviting people over last minute. Ash’s cooking was reminiscent of another time. She fried things in Crisco (“Butter doesn’t give it that same oomph,” she explained to me) and served dips made with sour cream, mayonnaise, cream cheese, and dried soup mixes. She loved casseroles of any kind, was always using her slow cooker, and was unapologetic about her Jell-O salads and spaghetti pie and snickerdoodles.
That day, they’d set up a chili bar on their dining room table. The chili was in a chafing dish with bowls of toppings all around—cheese, onions, Fritos, oyster crackers, sour cream, chopped tomatoes. Whenever people felt like it, they’d grab a bowl and eat wherever there was room, standing by the fireplace or sitting on the couch. I watched nervously, waiting for someone to spill a hunk of chili on the beautiful rug, which made me feel silly because neither of them seemed to care.
Everyone loved being at the Dillons’ house, and truly, their parties were always the most fun. I remember once watching Ash drop a bottle of red wine in the kitchen, everyone standing paralyzed as the wine went everywhere. I would have been mortified—at most people’s homes this would be an incident that could ruin the night, but they just looked at each other across the room, and Jimmy started laughing. “I think the little lady might need to be cut off,” he said. As they mopped everything up with mountains of paper towels that turned red, Ash said, “Good Lord, it looks like a murder scene in here!” And then the party continued.
—
Ash and I spent most of the blizzard party sitting on the corner of the couch and chatting. Alan came over once to say hello to us, perching on the arm of the couch. I think he knew that we disliked him and felt he should give a little effort. (Or maybe he felt sorry for us because we were only talking to each other and thought he’d take pity on us.)
“Beth, hello,” he said. He was always awkward. Whenever I tried to hug him hello, he stiffened as though I were trying to make out with him, so eventually I just stopped.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Good, good,” he said. “Busy, of course. The boss doesn’t rest, but you know that! And how are you? What are you up to these days?”
“You mean, like jobwise?” I said, and he nodded. “I’m still at DCLOVE.”
Alan tilted his head at me and then said, as though he just remembered, “Oh, that website?”
“That’s the one,” I said.
“She’s their star writer,” Ash said, leaning over to pat my leg. “You should be careful, Alan. She may write an exposé on you!”